


Like Fresh Meat Loves Salt

by eeyore9990



Series: 30 Thankful Days [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Based On A Fairy Tale, Future Fic, M/M, Stiles Runs Away, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:04:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5139125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been five years. Stiles has a new life, a new name, and the certainty that leaving Beacon Hills made everything better. Then Derek Hale comes back into his life, and everything he thought he knew changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Fresh Meat Loves Salt

**Author's Note:**

> 30 Thankful Days, Day 3: Gift for [amaryllisrose](http://amaryllisrose.tumblr.com).
> 
> \--
> 
> Based on the fairy tale [Cap O'Rushes](http://www.authorama.com/english-fairy-tales-13.html), which is where the title is derived. Also, the Harris Ranch in the San Joaquin Valley of California and the Estancia Dos Lunas in Córdoba, Argentina are very real places, that I've only borrowed and promise to return unharmed. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Stiles stood in the middle of the street, shaking all over, tremors traveling to the very tips of his fingers as his heart clenched in his chest. The look on his dad’s face, angry and _disappointed_ and so very hurt, was too much for him. Far too much for any person to stand. 

The sheriff ran his gaze over the devastation around them, over the bodies lying dead and bleeding, and whispered, “You lied to me.” 

Stiles bit down on the sob that wanted to burst from him, swallowed it down instead to wait with all the other pain and fear that had been building for _years_ , since before Scott had been bit, since the day his mom had first looked at him with blank eyes and whispered, “ _And who are you, sweetheart? Are you lost?_ ” 

“I had to,” he said instead, his voice hard to drown out the needy whine he felt pushing past his throat. “I had to protect you.” 

The sheriff’s anger lashed like a whip as he spit the words, “I’m the goddamn sheriff here, Stiles!” slicing Stiles right to the heart. Then he seemed to deflate, just a bit, just enough for Stiles to feel a tiny molecule of hope. Which was shattered when his dad turned away again and said, “And the parent. It’s not your job to protect me.” 

Stiles recoiled at that, because he remembered, far too clearly, his mother’s final words to him. 

_“Take care of each other.”_

He left that night and didn’t look back. He was gone ten hours before his father, exhausted from nearly twenty straight hours of work, knew he was missing. 

– 

Stiles lifted the square bale to the back of the truck and took a moment to wipe his tanned forearm across his sweaty face before he banged the side panel and shouted for Mike to drive to the next bale. But Mike didn’t move, prompting Stiles to jog the few feet to the cab of the truck where Mike was sitting with his elbow hanging out the open window and a ballgame buzzing from the radio. 

“What’s up?” 

“Hey, Steve, you’re looking a little hot.” 

An automatic smirk pulled at Stiles’ mouth, the, “hell yeah I’m hot,” tripping out by rote. 

Mike just rolled his eyes and jerked his head toward the small cooler sitting in the middle of the truck’s bench seat. “Get in and take a break, kid. You’re no good to me passed out in the middle of the field. You may not weigh much more than those bales, but sure as shit I don’t wanna be hauling your skinny ass around.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I feel the love, old man.” Stiles hid his wince as he turned away, the age-old flare of pain as he thought of who he might have said those words to in a past life hitting him right in the gut like it did when he relaxed enough to drop his guard around _himself._ His fucking brain, that liked to stab him in the soft and still tender parts. 

Not for the first time, he thought about picking up a phone. Thought of placing that call to the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department just to hear his dad’s voice on the other end. But as he rounded the front of the truck, he steeled his resolve again. 

His dad was doing well, the town had settled down with Stiles’ absence these last five years. The top news in the Beacon Gazette was about annual barbeques and not missing- presumed- dead citizens. The worst thing that had happened in that godforsaken town since Stiles had put the welcome sign in his rear view mirror was that the Hospital Fun Run had been rained out and required to reschedule. 

And all it took was Stiles removing himself from the equation. 

Pulling the creaking passenger door open, Stiles stepped up and into the cab, sinking down on the old springs of the seat with a sigh. An open bottle of water was thrust at him; he grabbed it with a quick word of thanks and downed it all in a few deep swallows. 

“Barn dance tonight,” Mike said, his weathered face creased in a smile of anticipation. 

“You gonna ask Sue?” Stiles pulled another bottle from the cooler and sat back, propping his booted feet on the dry, cracked leather of the dash. 

Mike looked at him, only the white lines starbursting from the corners of his eyes giving away how they’d widened in surprise. “She’s my wife. She better be going with me.” 

“Dude,” Stiles sighed, rolling his eyes as he cracked the top off the bottle and took a sip. “Just because you’re married doesn’t mean you shouldn’t _ask_. Keep the romance alive, Mike, that’s all I’m saying here.” 

“Yeah? You gonna take your own advice? Ask that cute little nurse that comes out to do Mr. Harris’ PT…” Mike’s voice trailed off as he batted his eyelashes at Stiles, a look that just made Stiles laugh his ass off since Mike was probably pushing sixty and a hardened ranch hand for more than fifty of those years, if his stories were to be believed. 

“Nah, I’m taking tonight off for some me time. ‘Treat yo self,’” he murmured, taking another drink before recapping the bottle and dropping it to the seat beside him. Leaving Mike exclaiming in surprise at his movements, he jumped out of the truck and ran toward a small clump of meadow flowers. Plucking them, careful to keep the stems long enough for a bouquet, he hurried back to the truck and rooted around on the floorboard for a paper napkin. Finding a questionably clean one under the seat, he awkwardly juggled everything as he grabbed the water bottle and uncapped it enough to douse the napkin with it and then wrapped the napkin around the stems of the flowers. “Here,” he said, thrusting them at Mike. 

“Aww, Steve, you shouldn’t have. No, really. You _shouldn’t_ have.” Placing a dramatic hand against his chest, Mike squawked, “I’m a married man!” 

“Shut up. They’re for Sue. You’re going to give them to her _when you ask her to the dance._ Trust me on this, man. It’s the little things like this that make people happy.” 

Mouth flattening out in thought, Mike slowly nodded and took the bouquet, placing the flowers with their damp napkin in the mouth of the bottle Stiles had emptied in his first rush of thirst. “If I’m doing this, you’re going with me. Ain’t humiliating myself on my own. Hell, she might hit me over the head with her cast iron cooking pan. Think I’ve been possessed or somethin’.” 

Stiles’ breath caught, his lungs freezing as sudden memories swamped him, bad ones. Ones that really weren’t his – or so he tried to tell himself when the nightmares got too bad. Mike’s one-sided conversation continued on in the background as Stiles successfully fought back a panic attack. 

“Welp, kid,” Mike was saying when Stiles finally tuned back in to his voice. “Time to make hay while the sun is shinin’. I’d like to get back to the big house in time to take a shower before I ask my wife on a date.” 

Pasting a smile on his face, Stiles leaned over and stook a big sniff before dramatically holding his hand to his nose. “Yeah, you _need_ one, Stinky Pete.” 

Cuffing Stiles around the back of his head, Mike barked out a laugh and said, “Get out of here, idiot. We got work to do.” 

– 

Stiles always took dinner with the rest of the ranch hands in one of the barracks buildings, never feeling completely comfortable sitting down to dinner with the Harris pack. It felt too much like he was betraying Scott, even all these years later. 

So it wasn’t until he was scraping up the chili and rice from the bottom of his bowl that he heard a name that startled him into dropping his spoon. “What?” he asked the guy who’d spoken it. “What did you just say?” 

“Uh,” the guy, Lucas, shifted his gaze around to the other hands, none of them really accustomed to Stiles interrupting their conversations – the mostly silent but hard worker he presented to them a far cry from the outspoken boy he’d once been. Mike knew better, and a bunch of the people who lived here year-round instead of just at cutting season, but for all that Stiles spent his off hours with the seasonal hires, he knew better than to let any of them get too close. 

“The Harris’ are throwing the barn dance for some friends coming in from Argentina?” Stiles prompted. 

“Oh, yeah. I mean, that’s what Sandy said, anyway. But I guess some of them are American or something. She didn’t know the ins and outs of it, but whatever. A party is a party and Mr. Harris said drinks are on him, so…” Lucas shrugged, grinning as a few of the guys at the long table hooted their approval. 

“Huh,” Stiles said, staring down at his bowl as the food he’d shovelled in his mouth began churning in his gut. “Huh.” 

“You all right there, Steve?” Lucas asked, eyes narrowed on Stiles. 

“Hmm? Oh, yeah I’m fine. I just didn’t know about the other p–” Stiles coughed to cover his near-slip. “The other people coming. I just thought the dance was because we loaded in the last of the hay this year.” Then, to push the attention back off himself, he nodded down the table and said, “Good work, guys. See you next year, I hope.” And then he lifted his legs over the bench and stood up, clearing away his dishes as he did so. 

As he walked toward the back of the main house to the door of the kitchen to drop off his dishes, he thought about who might be on the grounds right now. Who might have seen him or smelled him or _heard_ his voice and … With a ragged breath and a straightening of his shoulders, he firmed up his stride. He didn’t need to work himself into a panic over this. 

It had been _five years_. 

Even if they did call his dad or Scott, he was twenty three years old and being groomed to take over as head foreman of the Harris ranch when Mike eventually retired. He was an adult with a new life. Living on a ranch owned and operated by a pack of werewolves. 

Because no matter how far he ran from Beacon Hills, this was still his life. 

– 

Stiles followed the glow of the bonfire late that night, unable to sleep or relax even after a long bubble bath and two bottles of beer. He wouldn’t allow himself more than two. Didn’t want his reflexes impaired with strange ‘wolves on the ranch. As he’d paced the confines of his small room in the barracks, he’d convinced himself to come out here, to see for himself if he had anything to worry about. 

Just because Cora’s new pack had been in South America didn’t mean it was this one. South America was huge and Argentina just a tiny portion of it. And really, even if it _was_ Cora’s pack, what were the odds that she’d even remember him after all this time. He’d grown, changed. He was more Steve Stearns now than Stiles Stilinski and– 

Stiles bumped into what he’d thought was a dark shadow, nearly tripping over himself before he found his feet again and turned, eyes wide, to see _Derek Hale_ casting the dark shadow. 

“Lo ciento. Uh, I mean, sorry,” Derek said, eyes on his shoes as the flickering light from the bonfire sent shadows dancing over his face. 

“Yeah, no… no problem. My fault,” Stiles muttered, voice somehow both scratchy and squeaking in surprise. Like he was still puberty’s bitch. Then, because he was a fucking idiot, he heard himself say, “You’re not at the dance.” 

“No. I don’t like… people.” At Stiles’ startled burst of laughter, Derek scowled and shook his head. “I mean, in groups. I don't…” 

“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to explain yourself to _me_.” Stiles was opening his mouth, another teasing remark readying itself on the tip of his tongue when Derek looked back up again, and the way his face was blankly polite hit Stiles right in the solar plexus. That was the look of a person who was talking to a _stranger_ , not someone they’d gone through countless life or death scenarios with. Stiles staggered back, blinking rapidly even as Derek shifted, looking uncomfortable just before he ducked his head. 

“Um,” Stiles said, floundering. “I’m uh, shit. Sorry.” Thrusting out his hand, he felt a part of himself wailing in agony over the whole humiliating situation. “Steve Stearns. I'm… I work here. At the ranch.” 

Derek visibly relaxed his facial muscles, his grip almost too lax as he shook Stiles’ hand. “Derek Hale.” 

“You must be one of our visitors from Argentina.” Then, remembering he wasn’t supposed to know anything about Derek, he added, “Although your name sounds very… what? English?” 

“Uh, yeah, my sister is married to the ranch owner. I moved down there a few years ago.” 

_Five_ , Stiles mentally corrected him. Five years ago, just before Stiles had run away. 

“And it’s Welsh, actually,” Derek said, then cleared his throat, glancing behind Stiles at the fire. 

The fire that had probably sent him out here, now that Stiles thought about it. But he couldn’t say anything about _that_ either, not with the fire casting him into shadow and hiding him from Derek. 

Rocking back on his heels, Stiles wracked his brain for some small talk, something to get the conversational ball rolling. “I was coming out to talk to our foreman.” 

“Mike?” Derek asked, lips curving up slightly. “I don’t think you’ll find him. His wife dragged him out of the dance early. Something about flowers.” 

Stiles bit back a grin. “Really? Awesome.” 

Derek’s head twitched, his eyebrows drawing down in the middle. “You…” 

Holding his breath, Stiles waited, a questioning noise bubbling up his throat. 

“Sorry.” Derek shook his head, expression going bleak for a moment before he straightened and pasted on another polite smile. “You just reminded me of someone I knew once. A long time ago.” 

Pursing his lips, Stiles tilted his head toward the barn. “I’m going to grab a drink. Want anything? I could…” He stopped, thought about it. Considered all the options and went with something like the truth. “I could get you some of the special brew.” 

Derek’s eyes flared wide in shock. “You know?” 

“Yeah. Harris _pack_. It’s not much of a stretch to imagine their guests might be like them.” 

“But you’re not,” Derek said, his tone certain. 

“No, I…” Stiles looked down, dug his toe in the dirt. “I had a pack once. Didn’t work out.” 

When he looked up, Derek’s face was carved into lines of wretched understanding and he nodded but didn’t say anything other than, “Yeah, if you don’t mind grabbing me a beer, I’d appreciate it.” 

– 

The following days were filled with the hard work that came with his responsibilities on the ranch. The nights were spent lingering in shadows, waiting for Derek to arrive and then talking long into the night. 

Stiles’ breath still caught a little every time Derek laughed – actually _laughed_ – about something that had happened on the ranch he helped Cora and her husband run. The Estancia Dos Lunas had apparently started keeping goats, and Derek’s stories of them eating his clothes or head butting him filled Stiles with a warmth he’d not felt in far too long, if ever. 

It was like he was meeting Derek all over again. And maybe he was. Maybe Derek had needed to run away from Beacon Hills as much as Stiles had. 

That warmth turned to affection and affection into arousal, though Stiles did his best to tamp it down. The last thing either of them needed was a short-lived fling, especially when Stiles was busy lying to Derek about who he was. 

“Do you remember scents?” Stiles asked on their third night of meeting up. 

“What do you mean? Like food?” 

Stiles picked at the label on his beer bottle before shrugging. “Well, I mean, sure. But mostly people.” 

“People are… different. A child’s scent is different from an adult’s scent is different from a teenager’s scent. Medication and even what they eat can change a person’s scent. Emotions. There are too many factors. I can tell if someone is human or… like me, but not necessarily identify them by scent unless I’m around them all the time.” That was another thing that was different about Derek, though Stiles had seen glimpses of it in the months before he’d left. This willingness to talk about himself, about being a werewolf and all it entailed. 

Derek had grown and changed and Stiles found himself mourning the fact that he hadn’t been there to see it. 

“What about you?” Derek asked, half-turning toward Stiles. 

“I remember some scents so vividly it hurts sometimes. My dad’s cologne. My mom’s favorite… lasagna.” Pierogies, actually. “Things I miss, I think. So there’s no telling if I’m actually remembering them right, you know?” 

“How did you end up here?” Derek asked, subtly moving them away from the dark waters of that conversation. “Did you grow up around here?” 

Stiles smiled softly, a little ache blooming and dissipating in his chest. “Born and raised in California.” It’s not a lie if it’s the truth. 

“Me, too,” Derek said, a little half-grin telling Stiles he thought he was surprising Stiles with this information. “Moved around a lot after high school, though. New York and Chicago. Boston.” 

“All the big cities, huh? And yet you ended up on a ranch in the middle of Argentina. Must be quite a change. Quiet.” 

“Yeah,” Derek sighed, smiling fondly. “Yeah it is.” 

They fell silent then, both of them looking out at the dark ranch and the rolling fields of recently-cut hay, let the scent of the animals wash over them. 

“How long are–” 

“Do you ever–” 

They both started and stopped at the same time, Derek chuckling a little as he gestured for Stiles to go first. 

“How long are you staying here?” 

Derek hunched one shoulder in a slow shrug. “The pack is leaving tomorrow. I… there are some people I wanted to check in with while I’m here. A few hours upstate.” 

_Scott_ , Stiles thought, the sudden need for information almost overwhelming him. His fingers itched to find his computer and type in the address to the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department website. “Yeah?” he said, his voice a little croaky. “Where’s that?” 

“Beacon Hills.” 

– 

Stiles stood outside the kitchen doorway, flipping the old wooden triskele symbol over and over in his hand. The shuffling of feet preceded a hand coming down on his shoulder that made him startle, then turn to Sue as he tried to calm his racing heart. “Hey! Hi. Um.” 

“Steve? What’s got you looking like a cat with your tail caught under a rocker?” 

Stiles narrowed his eyes at her. “Do you and Mike sit around memorizing kitschy sayings?” 

Sue’s soft smile stretched into a knowing grin. “I’ll never tell. What’s up, sugar plum?” 

“Nothing much, I just… I know the uh, the other pack is leaving today and…” 

“Hale?” 

Yanking his gaze from the triskele to her, Stiles stared at her in slack-jawed amazement. “What?” 

“Boy, don’t look at me like that. He’s got an ass you could bounce a fistful of quarters off and a smile I wouldn’t mind seeing over the breakfast table, if you know what I mean.” 

“I always know what you mean, Sue.” 

“That’s why I like you. So, what? You wanna give your boy a courting gift?” Sue pointed at the piece of wood in his hands. “It’s a little odd, but then so are you.” 

“Yeah, he uh. I mean. Shit,” Stiles muttered, shoving it at her. “Would you make sure he gets this?” 

“You don’t wanna give it to him yourself?” Sue asked, reluctantly taking the round disk. 

“No.” Swallowing down the panic rising up his throat, Stiles added softly, “I’m just making sure it gets back to the right owner.” 

– 

Stiles was sitting out in the south pasture, eating his lunch like a coward, when a black blur appeared in the corner of his vision and then he was being bowled over by a massive black wolf. A… 

“Derek?” he asked, spitting out the mouthful of sandwich he’d been chewing before he could choke to death on it. 

The wolf went blurry with shifting magic for a second before Derek was stretched out over him, completely nude. “Steve, how did you… Where. Where did you find that pendant?” 

“It’s more of a wooden disk than a pendant, really,” Stiles muttered, still trying to orient himself for this conversation. It was difficult to do, what with Derek’s naked everything pressed all up against him. “I mean, what?” 

“ _Who gave that to you?_ ” 

With a long sigh, Stiles closed his eyes and dropped his head back onto the ground behind him. “From you,” he said, then corrected himself. “Well, I took it away from Liam, but he got it from you, so–” 

“ _Stiles?!_ ” Derek’s weight was suddenly gone. 

When Stiles finally opened his eyes, he could see a red flush filling in the pale skin of Derek’s face. “Surprise?” 

Derek didn’t even react to that, just sat there, gaze dragging all over Stiles’ face and body, taking in the changes that five years had made. “You,” he finally breathed, eyes locking on Stiles’ own. “You…” 

“I lied to you,” Stiles said, his voice small, beating Derek to the punch. “I’m sorry, but–” 

“You’re _alive_ ,” Derek breathed, lurching forward and grabbing Stiles, pulling him into a painful, clutching hug. “You’re alive,” he said again, like he couldn’t believe it, his voice a little broken. 

“What? Yeah, I mean… why wouldn’t I be?” 

But Derek just buried his head in Stiles’ neck, pulling in long breaths, and okay. Still naked. Still very naked. 

Pushing down his very inappropriate appreciation of feeling all of Derek’s everything pressed up against him, Stiles tapped him on the back, right over the triskele tattoo. “Derek.” 

Derek shuddered, just nosing in deeper in response, his choppy breaths hot against the sensitive skin of Stiles’ throat. “They found your Jeep three days after you left. It was… There were claw marks.” 

Stiles winced because he remembered abandoning the Jeep at the side of a mostly-deserted road. He’d been out of gas, out of money, and out of hope, but a passing truck driver had offered him a lift to the next town for gas. He’d hopped around from there, begging rides from strangers until he was far enough away that he felt safe taking odd jobs for cash. 

But in his head, he’d always attached the word 'runaway’ to himself. Runaway was much better than dead. The Gazette had never mentioned that. 

“I have to go back,” he whispered, and Derek pulled away, the seriousness on his face clashing with the relief in his eyes. 

“I’ll take you.” 

– 

Seeing his dad for the first time in five years was an emotional gut punch that nearly knocked him straight into a panic attack. And it was stupid, because he’d come back here to see him, he’d _prepared_ for this. What he hadn’t been prepared for was seeing the way his dad was sitting at the big desk in his office, looking smaller than Stiles remembered, staring at a big salad in a white styrofoam container. 

His dad didn’t look up, must have thought Stiles was someone else, because he just chuckled a little, though it was a heartbreaking sound. “I still hate these damn things,” the sheriff muttered, stabbing a tomato with his fork. “But I can’t even look at a damn hamburger anymore without hearing my boy’s voice. All he ever wanted to do was protect me and I–” 

“Dad,” Stiles said, the word catching in his emotion-clogged throat. “ _Dad._ ” 

The sheriff looked up slowly, color draining straight out of his face and leaving him looking sickly and frail as he raised his shaking hands to the arms of his chair. “Are you a ghost?” he whispered, then, “No, I don’t care. I don’t care if you are. I'll… _Stiles_.” 

Stiles tripped forward then, his need to hug his dad outweighing all the anxiety and fear flooding him. Crashing to his knees beside his dad’s chair, he threw himself at his father and felt those strong arms come around him, first gently, then with a strength that belied his humanity. The scent of his cologne surrounded Stiles, made him let out a little choked-off whimper. Whispering apologies into the front of his dad’s uniform shirt, Stiles almost didn’t hear the ones being breathed into the top of his head. 

“No, no, dad,” he said, wiping tears onto his shirt sleeve before reaching up to cup his dad’s face. “You didn’t know… You thought.” Shaking his head, he tried and failed to find words to fill this breach. 

His dad just gripped his hand, like he needed this reassurance, this physical connection. “Shh, it’s okay, son. It’s okay. You’re home.” 

Feeling the weight of a gaze on his back, Stiles turned his head to see Derek filling the doorway, looking a little awkward at witnessing the tear-filled reunion. “Yeah,” Stiles said, quirking the corner of his lips into something like a grin. “Yeah, we are.” 

**Author's Note:**

> These fics are always posted first to my [tumblr](http://eeyore9990.tumblr.com) before being archived here. Feel free to check them out over there, if you like. :D
> 
> \--
> 
> Now with added comment!fic: http://archiveofourown.org/comments/43323719


End file.
